


Sunshine & Whiskey

by KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Failed attempt number one, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Rick finding ways to cope with life, Rickyl Writer's Group, Season 03, cute Grimes family moments, established realtionship (sort of), established something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Failed attempt at the 800 word challenge for the Rickyl Writer's Group)</p><p>None of them had had liquor in months, not since the world ended. But somehow Daryl still tasted like Jack Daniels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine & Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Yes it's a failed attempt, I overshot by over 100 words. Short stories are really hard for me but I really wanted to try, I'm going to attempt again - until I do here's this. I liked it too much to not post it.

Rick was a whiskey man. 

Before the dead started walking the Earth, he would indulge in a drink every once in a while. Not enough to be regularly, but enough that he had a routine. Two fingers, neat, in a glass he kept in his desk at home. There really wasn’t much in a small jurisdiction like King County, Kentucky to get him to crawl into a bottle, so usually it was a just to calm his nerves after they had been rattled once in blue moon. Or after a particularly difficult night, and he just need to unwind. 

But looking back, he never really needed those drinks – not like he needed one now. Back then, it was just a small stack of problems that were piled one on top of each other, growing higher and higher until it almost collapsed from the instability of it all. But Rick always had it covered, could handle whatever was hefted on to his shoulders. No matter what, he was always able to deal with whatever the world would throw at him. The only person who really suffered was Lori, and he would regret that he never noticed that until the day he died. 

Not to say that he couldn’t handle the fucking tower of problems he now had, stacked so high and in such a complex pattern just to stay upright he might as well have been playing Janga. But _God_ he could really use a drink some nights. And it had been a long time since the CDC, downing an entire bottle of Cabernet all by himself just to take the edge off. 

Barely anything took the edge off after that, after the Greene farm fell and the winter started whittling away at every member of his group bit by bit, the only thing that even came close was when his knife sunk deep into a walker’s skull. Violence wasn’t a good outlet for him, but it made him feel in control, and he was able to channel it and focus every ounce of his frustration into one point. So he could deal with the priorities that mattered: food, water, shelter, safety. 

It wasn’t until the prison that Rick found a new routine, one that took months to perfect – and a lot of courage on his part, at first required a dance that took a lot of finesse and just a push of bravery that Rick thought he had lost somewhere out on the road during the winter. But it went a little something like this: 

First, he’d head straight for whichever cell was housing Judith that day. Holding his daughter was a good way to lessen the weight that was always pulling him down, like he was tethered to the floor, grounding but heavy and sometimes unbearable. Cradling her close and watching her big blue eyes lock on his own, smiling and giggling and waving around her tiny fists, it reminded him so much of Carl when he was that size that he couldn’t help but smile. Even if his face had been frozen in a set frown for hours before that moment. 

Next, he’d locate his son, which depending on the time of day wasn’t too hard. Anytime from sundown to sun up he’d be in his cell, like a typical teenager locking themselves in their room– and that thought always settled the rumbling storm of worry in his chest. Carl would be in his cell, burning through their batteries like matches as he used a flashlight to read comic books all night long. Rick would get shoed away not long after he knocked on the bars, but that was fine. His son was being a kid, and that helped more than Carl would ever know.

Then, after checking on all the other members of his group, he’d either end up in the cell at the end of the hall – or up in the watch tower. The watch tower happened more often than not. Rick would climb up into the small room, crossing the few feet to the ledge, and plop down next to Daryl Dixon, legs dangling through the bars as the hunter kept his eyes on the fence line. Sometimes they’d talk, exchange short greetings, talk about the day, other times they’d sit in silence and just rest against each other. Until Rick’s prying blue eyes finally got Daryl’s attention, depending on the archer’s mood Rick could spend over an hour staring at Daryl’s profile before he finally looked over. He’d roll his eyes, or smirk, or stare back and just make Rick come to him, but no matter what – Rick would lean in and press his lips to Daryl’s, and it was like that first sip of whiskey from the glass. Smooth and bright, deliciously bitter warmth spreading through his limbs all the way to his fingertips, calming him inside and out. His shoulders would relax as he fell further into the other man, licking into his mouth and tasting him. He could feel Daryl meld to match his movements, always in sync with the give and take of Rick’s body, of his actions and mannerisms. Groaning from the sensation, which Rick can’t help but match.

None of them had had liquor in months, not since the world ended. But somehow Daryl still tasted like Jack Daniels. 

Jack Daniels and the bright Georgia sun streaming through the trees in the forest.

And Rick was addicted to that taste, nothing calmed the storm inside him more than those light traces of sunshine and whiskey.


End file.
